He saw the grief in Chris' face, and held out his hand.
"You did your best; it was a gallant thing—going into the river like that—in the darkness. They would both have gone but for you."
"You'd best go to bed, sir," the innkeeper's wife said to Chris, as he went back upstairs. "Lie down and try to sleep: I'll call you the very minute if she asks for you."
But he would not, and in the end she brought an armchair to the door of Marie's room, and, worn out with exhaustion and emotion, Chris fell asleep in it.
He woke to daylight and the tramp of feet on the road outside. He stared up and stood listening and shaking in every limb.
He knew what it meant—they were bringing Feathers in . . .
The awfulness of it seemed to come home to him with overwhelming force as he stood there and listened.
He had lost his best friend—the man who for years had been more to him than a brother, and they had parted in anger. He had refused to shake hands with him—he would have given five years of his life now to live that moment again.
The innkeeper's wife came tiptoeing to him across the little landing as he stood looking out of the window on to the road. She had been up with Marie all night, and whispered to him now that she had fallen asleep.
"Such a lovely sleep, bless her!" she said, with pride. "And if you was to be very quiet . . ."